RUSTED WEAPONS AND THE SOUND MACHINE.
by shannon baker

greasy replacement wounded with flavor
being not in the way
of my hating only his
contagious unneed
brought wandered rude
into focus.

banging
i put away the canned goods
making
smoke for cat to chase.
trees mount hallucination
and there isn’t much to say upon
the sweet predicted drench
of moon seeds.

one promiscuous stump
of level envy
went fishing to get equal
and, met with squeaking
docks full of
unprotected sin,
remembered the flesh he had wagered
so many times
and lost.

dear mother nature,
at the last minute
the car wouldn’t start.
i did my best.